


Love Comes Home

by sherlockian4evr



Series: The Lovers of Baker Street [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A.G.R.A., BAMF Mary, Case Fic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Heart Attacks, Multi, Murder, Original Character Death(s), Polyamory, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-22 03:13:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 12,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3712690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian4evr/pseuds/sherlockian4evr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Watsons move into the downstairs flat at 221 and our family's lives settle into a pattern, but things are never that easy. Life makes its demands: patental illness, a threat to Mary and the baby and whatever became of the new Moriarty threat?</p><p>Beta read by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock1110/pseuds/Sherlock1110">Sherlock1110.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft had had his doubts about the so called  _Mary Watson_. He had failed John Watson with his cursory background check of the woman. It was only Sherlock's pleading at A &E that had spared her life after Sherlock had been shot. Of course, Mycroft had had a deep check performed on the woman and had discovered all there was to know about A. G. R. A. Only at Sherlock's behest had she been given a probationary period to prove herself and thereby save her own life on a more permanent basis.

The day that she had prevented Sherlock's suicide had canceled out all debts as far as Mycroft was concerned. Every action since then had only confirmed that decision. It was time for A. G. R. A to truly disappear. There would be no record of her remaining in any database or vault when his operatives were through. There would only be Mary Watson.

* * *

The remodel of the basement flat at 221 was proceeding with alacrity. Mycroft's cash and influence had kept the contractors to schedule. The Watsons were on site to inspect the progress and Sherlock was excitedly providing a tour of the remodeled rooms.

The tapping of an umbrella on the molding of the flat door, captured the trio's attention.

For once, Sherlock greeted his brother with an excited smile. "Hello brother dear, won't you join us." The detective ushered Mycroft into the flat.

Mycroft shook John's hand and placed a chaste peck on Mary's cheek. They were both surprised by Mycroft's warm gestures, he was The Ice Man, after all.

Reaching behind himself, Mycroft pointedly closed the door to the flat. "I have a matter of some delicacy to discuss with you." He indicated with his umbrella that his words were meant for all three of them. "Given recent events, I felt it my duty to attend to a personal issue that has been and could have once again become problematic. As of 14:00 yesterday, A. G. R. A. ceased completely to exist. She will have no bearing on your future in any manner."

Mary bit the back of her hand, then surprising even herself, leapt to hug The British Government. Mycroft bore the hug stiffly until she released him. John took one step away, then he too pulled Mycroft into a rough embrace. When he released the man, John wiped tears from his eyes with the back of his hand.

Sherlock, more reserved as always, stood straight with his hand outstretched. When Mycroft grasped his hand, Sherlock clasped it in both of his, "Thank you, Mycroft." Then, thinking better of it, he too pulled his brother into an embrace.

Mycroft was, by this time, feeling exceeding uncomfortable. He tapped his umbrella against the bottom of his shoe nervously. "Yes, well then. I'll just be on my way." So saying, Mycroft turned and left the flat.

John, Mary, and Sherlock looked at each other in wonder before pulling together to celebrate in an all-encompassing joyous embrace.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, and Dr. John Watson, ex-army doctor sat in the middle of the nursery surrounded by parts to a crib. Numerous, mislabeled parts accompanied by shoddy assembly instructions.

Sherlock curled his lip in disgust. "Give me a case any day. A nice triple homicide. Simple. This," he gestured to the vast array of parts around him, "is far too complex." The detective threw down the useless instructions. "You should have had it delivered pre-assembled."

John shook his head. "Oi! Not all of us have a trust fund, Sherlock."

* * *

Mycroft had finally released his hold on Sherlock's trust fund. This came after an apparent bout of fiscal responsibility on the detective's part; however, Mycroft was under no illusions. He knew that Mary had taken over Sherlock's finances. No, the deciding factors were twofold.

One, Sherlock was more grounded since entering into his relationship with the Watsons. The apparent symptoms of his so-called Antisocial Personality Disorder were markedly reduced. (Even Mycroft had recently decided that the many psychiatrists who had repeatedly diagnosed Sherlock with APD were idiots.) Sherlock would always be  _different_ ,  _brilliant_ , (Mycroft would, of course, never admit the latter assessment to his baby brother.) but the change was marked. Sherlock was no longer at loose ends.

Two, Mycroft wanted the soon-to-arrive baby Rosie to have everything that she would ever need or want. He knew that John could return to full time practice if he so chose, but Mycroft did not want that decision to be forced on the man. Sherlock was safer on cases with John at his side. John thrived when he was working cases with Sherlock. It was a beautiful symbiotic relationship. As things now stood, Sherlock could supplement the family's income.

* * *

"Don't be dull, John." Sherlock had covered this ground with John twice already and he was growing tired of the repetition. "You insist that I am a member of this family. As such, you have free access to any funds that I hold at any time."

John's mouth quirked into an odd smile. "Ta, very much." He meant it. "It takes a bit of getting used to, Sherlock. This being rich thing."

Sherlock harrumphed. "I prefer the classification 'exceedingly well to do'.  _Rich_ implies a level of financial freedom that we will not experience until the death of my parents." The detective was suddenly focused very intently on the badly written crib assembly instructions.

John looked up from the pile of parts where he had returned his focus and examined Sherlock with concern. He wondered why their conversation had moved in this direction. "Are they okay? Your parents, I mean."

"Hmm. Father experienced chest pains two days ago. His physician had had an ECT run. The results suggest that Father experienced a heart attack." Sherlock glanced up at John. "I believe that an angiogram as already been scheduled."

"You know, Mary and I will be there with you," John reassured.

Sherlock's face had gone blank.

"During the angiogram," John prompted.

"Right." There was a pause then Sherlock asked, "Why?"

John sighed. "Because that's what families do."

Sherlock was learning, truly he was. The detective would do absolutely anything for those he loved. Sherlock just had trouble accepting the same when it came to himself. He had even revealed to John that there were now signs in every room of his Mind Palace that read: Trust John and Mary. They will always take care of you. LET THEM.

John scooted from his place among the crib parts to move to Sherlock's side. He embraced the detective's unyielding body, holding on until he felt Sherlock's muscles slow relax and his head come to rest on John's shoulder.

They held that pose for a long moment before Sherlock broke the embrace. The detective husked out a simple; "Thank you."

John took the hint when Sherlock lifted the crib assembly instructions in his hands and returned to the task at hand. There would be time for more discussion and comfort later.


	3. Chapter 3

The trio stepped through the door into 221. Sherlock started tiredly up the stairs to 221B, Mary urged John to follow as she made her way to 221C. The blonde man gave her a quick hug before pursuing the detective.

Once the two men were safely ensconced in Sherlock's flat, divested of coats, scarves, and gloves, John embraced the tall man. "Try to smile. The angiogram went very well." Sherlock started to protest but the doctor cut him off. "I know, they found three partially blocked arteries and had to insert stints, but he will feel better than he has in ages. Wait and see." After a pause, he added, "We can be grateful that nothing more invasive was required, yeah?"

Sherlock gave his lover a weak smile. In response, John reached up and smoothed his dark curls back from his face. Perhaps the detective couldn't believe what the doctor had told him so he spoke the words that he would believe, "I love you."

John's words had an unexpected effect. Sherlock grasped the other man's face in his hands and pulled him into a fierce kiss, tears leaking from his eyes. The kiss was fuelled by a kind of sadness, fear for his father, fear for the future, love for their unique family, and lust for John.

John could sense all of this in his lover's desperate kiss. If this was what Sherlock needed to feel comforted, he would give it to the man. He allowed the detective to lead the kiss. It deepened with each heartbeat.

Long elegant fingers moved to the edge of John's jumper as the kiss was broken. Before he knew it, the jumper had been tugged over his shoulder and tossed to the side. Those same fingers, now frantic in their motions, were working at the buttons of his blue shirt.

John reached to steady Sherlock's hands. "Easy love. I'm not going anywhere."

His hands stilled and the detective met lie lover's eyes. He let out a shuddering breath. "I don't know why this is so important." His normally controlled face now a study in confusion. "I only know that I  _need_  to have sex with you."

** Blunt as usual. **  "It’s okay. Consider it to be an affirmation of life." John waited for that to sink into Sherlock's brain.

The other man cocked his head to the side. He wore that  _processing_  look that the doctor had seen so many times in the past. "I'll accept your judgment as this form of  _sentiment_ is highly confusing."

Sherlock's emotional state aside, the man was humorous in his awkwardness. John couldn't help himself, he laughed. Trying to take the sting of his laughter away, he stroked the detective's arms. "Sorry, love. That statement was so quintessentially  _you_. And... I love everything about you." He paused and looked Sherlock up and down in his form fitting suit. "Shall we move to the bedroom?"

Now Sherlock's face broke into a genuine smile, crinkles at the corners of his eyes and all. With a low growl, he tugged on John's hand. "Yes."

Once in the bedroom, John made quick work of removing the rest of his clothes. Sherlock was not far behind him. Pulling the duvet off of the bed, they sat together. After a moment's pause the detective pressed John down onto the sheets and started peppering his body with kisses.

The blonde man writhed under Sherlock's mouth. He wanted to reciprocate but his lover had twined their fingers together and was gently but firmly holding his arms in place.  **A bit unusual.**  As the detective kissed John's body, he shifted his weight to keep the smaller man pinned beneath him.

Sherlock had never done anything like this before. The detective was always in control of everything in his life, perhaps, John thought, the incident with his father had upset his sense of control and this was his way of regaining part of what he had lost. If so, the doctor would never deny him. He relaxed under Sherlock's weight and simply enjoyed.

The brunette paused in his ministrations and manoeuvred them both fully onto the bed. "I don't know what I would do without you. You and Mary... You hold my heart in your hands." Uncharacteristically, tears were forming in Sherlock's eyes.

John cupped his lover's face with his left hand. "It is a precious gift. We'll always treasure and protect it, love."

The detective dipped down and greedily sought out another long kiss, his tongue entwined with John's as they explored the heat of each other's mouth. Sherlock broke the kiss and, moving downward, placed open mouthed kisses along the doctor's neck and torso.

John started to reach up to stroke his lover's shoulders but Sherlock broke off what he was doing to grasp the doctor's wrists. "Please, let me. I need to do this." His azure eyes were pleading. Mutely, John nodded and dropped his arms back to the bed.

Sherlock laved a long stripe up the centre of John's torso the worked his way, kissing, to the crook of the doctor's underarm. He nuzzled his way into the musky hair and breathed in all that was John. The doctor gasped at the sensation, his body tensing in pleasure.

The detective's lips caressed his lover's arm, his tongue shooting out to tease at his lover's flesh. Sherlock worked his way lovingly down to John's wrist where he paused to feel the thrumming of the doctor's pulse against his lips.

"Fuck," John gasped. "You are such a tease."

Sherlock rose up to smile at him before giving his lover's other arm the same treatment.

John's determination to remain still was quickly slipping and indistinct sounds of pleasure were slipping from his lips. He gave a sudden cry of pleasure when Sherlock moved downward and placed a long, wet kiss on the tip of his cock. There was no stopping the spasm of pleasure that seized his body.

A wicked laugh escaped the detective's lips before he took John's cock completely into the warmth of his moth. Sherlock wrapped his arms around his lover and grasped his arse cheeks. He pulled his doctor closer and worked his cock mercilessly with his tongue. He teased his tongue along every ridge, up the prominent vein, and to the tip where he tasted John's pre-come and shivered with pleasure.

The blonde was hanging on the precipice, needing nothing but a nudge to tip him over. Sherlock moved one hand from his lover's arse and took himself in hand. He worked himself with quick, long strokes as he shifted along John's length. As only he could, Sherlock timed their orgasms to coincide. Their semen intermingled against their abdomens in a warm sticky mess. After long shuddering moments had passed, the detective rolled to the side and collapsed next to his lover.

They rolled to face each other. John reached out to touch Sherlock's face. "Better?"

With a perplexed smile, the detective replied, "Oddly, yes."

The doctor gave a firm nod. "Good. Now to clean up and eat."

"But Mary...” Sherlock began.

John reached for his phone. "I'll shoot her a text." He blinked in surprise. "She already texted me. There's Thai on the table. I'm to stay the night, she wants the bed to herself. She's feeling uncomfortable."

They grinned at each other. They hadn't had a night together in a long time. This would be fun.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning:
> 
> The case involves the murder of a pregnant woman. What was done to her and her baby could be disturbing.

Clarissa sat staring at her laptop screen, unseeing. She had finished reading John Watson’s blog over fifteen minutes ago. She hadn’t been inspired or awed by the stories that she had found there. Instead, she had been angered. The doctor and his slut of a wife were expecting a baby.  _Her_  baby. At least it should have been hers. It would have been hers if it weren’t for the man’s insufferable then-flatmate.

John and Clarissa had had a wonderful relationship. In fact she had been sure that he was  _the one_. Then, one evening, Sherlock had deduced her in front of John. He had said that she was needy, obsessive and manipulative. Clarissa had thought that was rich coming from the overbearing detective. Still, it had been enough to influence John and he had called of their romance.

If she couldn’t have the handsome ex-army doctor for herself… well there were other options.

* * *

 

Sherlock had read the text from Lestrade and frowned. There had been a murder and the DI wanted the consulting detective’s input but he had forbidden John’s presence on the scene. Of course, Sherlock had texted back demanding to know the reason. Lestrade’s reply had been cryptic but had indicated that it was for John’s welfare. That had been enough to ensure Sherlock’s compliance.

As Sherlock approached the crime scene, Donovan greeted him with her customary “Hiya, Freak.” Her words had lost their bite over the years and a small amount of warmth had crept into them. For once, Sherlock pretended he hadn't noticed the change in her tone and surprised even himself by not pointing it out with some sarcastic remark.

“Sally,” Sherlock acknowledge, his eyes already searching the surrounding area for clues.

Donovan’s expression was especially grim. “Lestrade’s with the bodies, this way.”

“Bodies, plural? Lestrade failed to mention that in his text.” Sherlock was irritated that the DI had left out such a crucial detail. “How many?”

With a flinch, Donovan looked away from Sherlock – she was disturbed by this crime scene more than any other in her career. “Two, a female, mid-forties, and her unborn child.”

He wasn’t completely unfeeling, but Donovan was being completely obtuse. “If the child is unborn, then that means there is technically only one body.” Just as the last words were leaving his mouth, the bodies came into view. For the first time in his career as a consulting detective, he felt nausea at the sight of death.

Before him, was the body of the unidentified mother, her abdomen sliced and brutally opened. Her unborn child had been ripped untimely from her womb and was lying dead by her side.

Sherlock turned and fled the alley, stopping only when he reached the sidewalk beyond. He bent over from the waist and heaved violently. He didn’t notice the disbelieving stares of the Yarders or even Lestrade’s concern. Instead, he struggled to clear his mind of the horrible image that had taken seat there – the victim’s body but with Mary’s face.

The feel of a hand on his arm brought him to his senses. “Sherlock, mate. Just take your time.” Lestrade was far more concerned about his friend than he had been in years. “If this one’s strikes too close to home…”

Sherlock cut him off. “Don’t be absurd.” The consulting detective wiped a shaky hand across his mouth and straightened to his full height. “It was a fleeting reaction. I’ll be fine.”

The look that Lestrade levelled at him could only be called disbelieving at best. “Right.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I suppose I don’t have to explain why I wanted you to leave John out of this.”

Straightening his jacket, Sherlock gave the DI an appreciative nod. “Clearly, you believed that John would find the crime scene disturbing considering that Mary is expecting.” The look on the consulting detective’s face was unreadable. “Thank you.”

Lestrade couldn’t help the small smile that crept onto his face at the thanks – Sherlock had changed so very much in the last few years. “If you’re feeling better, then, could we get back to it?”

The two men strode back into the alley. As they passed the Yarders, conversations broke off and the officers stepped quickly out of the way.

Donovan caught Lestrade’s eye as the men approached. “He’ll be fine,” the DI mouthed silently in her direction.

This time, Sherlock moved about the crime scene with his usual manic intensity. He crouched down next to the victim’s body, taking every detail.  **Married, happily. Teacher. Approximately twenty-two weeks along.**  The long strand of brown hair on her shoulder caught his eye, the victim was blonde.

Standing, the consulting detective circled the bodies looking for further clues. At last, he spotted what he was looking for – scuffs in the detritus of the alleyway. Sherlock moved in closer and examined the scuffs intimately.  **Female. 1.57 meters. 115 pounds.**

It was a simple matter to rattle off his observations to Lestrade and his team and Sherlock make quick work of it. With a swirl of his coat, the consulting detective turned and strode from the crime scene ignoring the sound of Lestrade calling after him. He wanted to return to 221 and see John and Mary. He needed to know that they were safe and hold them in his arms.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning:
> 
> The case involves the murder of a pregnant woman. What was done to her and her baby could be disturbing.

John heard a clamour from the living room of 221C. Mary hadn't let out a cry of alarm so he reasoned that the door banging open must have been Sherlock. The doctor finished his puttering about in the kitchen with no urgency.

When John made his way to the living room, he was caught completely off guard by the sight that met his eyes. Sherlock was knelt before Mary, one hand pressed to the small of her back, the other pressed to her swollen belly. The side of the detective's face was pressed to her belly as well. His expression was a mixture of relief and deep concern.

Mary was looking at John helplessly, a silent plea on her face. One of her hands was buried in Sherlock's curls and the other covered his hand on her belly.

"Sherlock?" The detective's name was a question on John's lips. Sherlock simply rubbed his face against Mary's belly. John called his name again. This time it was enough to bring Sherlock back to himself. He released Mary and stood, one shaking hand swiping over his face.

"Sherlock, love, whatever is wrong?" Mary's voice was full of concern and she had embraced him firmly. Such behaviour was so very rare for their lover.

The detective's body stiffened and his mask of implacability fell into place. Sherlock cursed himself for showing weakness in front of John and Mary, especially over this. They had to be told about the case and it needed to be presented to them with cool reason not irrational panic. After all, Mary was a potential target by virtue of her pregnancy and would need to be on her guard at all times.

"Both of you, sit down." Sherlock gestured toward the sofa. He sat across from them in the armchair and collected his thoughts. Mary and John had clasped hands, their fingers entwined. Both looked concerned for Sherlock. He loathed that their concern was misdirected, it would have been so much easier if the danger were directed at him.

"Lestrade called me to a murder scene but he didn't want me to bring you along, John. He was concerned about how it would affect you." Sherlock took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He noted John's perplexed look. "I believe that his judgement was sound. The victim, victims, were a pregnant woman and her feotus. It had been cut from her womb."

Mary's hands came up to cover her mouth and John closed his eyes.

"It was quite... disturbing." Sherlock paused to clear the image from his mind. "The mother was approximately twenty-two weeks along. Either the perpetrator made an error in judgement or she was practicing her technique."

John interrupted. "Her? You think it was a woman."

"Obviously. It's a woman who can't have a child of her own for some reason and cannot adopt. She sees this as her only viable option for obtaining one." Sherlock's lips were curled in disgust. "The woman in question has long brown hair, is 1.57 meters tall, and weighs 115 pounds. I suggest that Mary limit her solitary excursions until the woman is caught. I would prefer that she not leave the flat, but I know that she won't agree to that restriction." He directed his next words to Mary. "Take John's SIG with you when you do go out and be on alert at all times."

"Bloody hell!" John had shot up off of the sofa and took several steps across the room. He was standing with his hands fisted at his sides and was breathing heavily. "Are you seriously suggesting that my very pregnant wife waltz about London with a SIG tucked away on her person?"

Mary walked over and stood behind her husband. She wrapped her arms around him and rested her head against his back. She was loathe to bring it up, but it had to be said. "No. Sherlock is suggesting that your very competent former assassin wife protect herself and our child to the best of her abilities." John stiffened in her arms. "I know you don't like to think about it. Neither do I, but in this case I'll use every skill that I have to protect our baby."

Sherlock joined her in embracing John. "As you should, Mary."

They held the doctor until he finally relaxed into their embrace. "Right." His voice sounded rough with emotion but completely accepting. "You're both right. Whatever it takes to keep Mary and the baby safe."

Sherlock released his lovers and stepped back. "Remember, there's absolutely no evidence that Mary, in particular, is a target. Any pregnant woman in her third trimester is at risk. Lestrade is preparing a suitable press release even now."

John gave Sherlock a sharp look. "I understand why Greg didn't want me there and I appreciate his concern, but don't leave me out of this. As long as a there is a possible danger to Mary, I'm in. You understand?"

Sherlock assessed the doctor for one long moment. John's strength and determination were abundantly evident. "Okay John, I promise. You're with me on this."

"Damn straight." John's jawline was set and firm. He fully intended to catch the woman that was a threat to his love.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for mentions of suicide.

Sherlock had slept with John and Mary that night, the doctor sandwiched in the middle. The detective had needed the comfort of their presence to calm his mind. At around four in the morning, his sleep bank had been filled to overflowing and he quietly got out of bed and left the room. Once back upstairs in 221B, he fired up his laptop and checked both his and John's blog. There was nothing of note, just the usual comments. Sherlock made a face as one of the comments on the doctor's blog caught his eye. It had been posted by Anonymous:

_Just a few more days, Love, then I'll have a piece of you to treasure forever._

It was possible that it had been posted by Mary, but that notion didn’t set right with him. Despite how much he hated relying on intuition, he couldn't ignore it, not now. He vowed to check with Mary as soon as she woke. Until then, Sherlock decided to review what he already knew inside his Mind Palace.

When a sound at the door roused him, Sherlock realised that quite some time had passed by the quality of the light streaming in through the windows. At the tapping of an umbrella against the floor, he turned and growled, "Piss off, Mycroft." His brother was the last person he wanted to see today.

The British Government came into the room fully and sat in John's chair as if he owned it, as if he belonged there.

"I'll have to fumigate that chair, brother dear," Sherlock snarked.

Mycroft crossed his legs and he gave his brother a cool smile. "And good morning to you, baby brother. I realise my presence is a burden for you."

"Then be less of one and go away." Sherlock stretched out fully on the sofa and stared at the ceiling, pointedly ignoring Mycroft.

The elder Holmes resisted the urge to sigh. "I've given you sufficient time to play at homemaking, Sherlock. It's time to get back to work. My work. The government's work. It's why you were brought back, after all." Mycroft had never been so grateful for a crisis as he had been on that tarmac. For saving Sherlock's life, whoever had been behind the Moriarty video had unwittingly earned the right to live. Provided, of course, they didn't prove to be a danger to his baby brother. "My colleagues are growing impatient. They want a resolution to the Moriarty issue."

Sherlock flopped on his side, facing away from his brother. "You know the video was impossible to trace and there's been no other indications of activity. It was a ruse. One last jab at us from beyond the grave. I faked my death, yes, but we both know he didn't. It's quite impossible to fake the back of one's head being blown away." He gave a huff. "I have other matters to occupy my time." He thought of Mary and the baby in her womb. Sherlock was already in love with that baby, just as he was with John and, in a way, with Mary herself. Mycroft would know that, of course, though he would disdain it, and he would know about the killer that was preying on pregnant women and the particular danger that represented. So why come to him now? Unless... Sherlock sat up and eyed his brother critically. "Something has happened."

Mycroft picked an imaginary piece of lint from his trousers and gave a mocking smile. "I knew you'd get there eventually, brother dear." He reached into his pocket and withdrew an envelope that he tossed in Sherlock's direction.

The detective caught it adroitly. Bringing it to his eye, he examined it closely. It was the same stationery that Moriarty had been so fond of using. He flipped it over and immediately recognised the neat handwriting that spelled out 'Mycroft Holmes' on the front. Impossible. It was Moriarty's handwriting. No, merely improbable. Pulling out the contents of the envelope, he unfolded the sheet of paper. It was dated today. Sherlock began to read.

_Mycroft, Ice Man, Dearest Big Brother,_

_I have so missed our little chats, how you shared the tiniest bits about your baby brother's pitiful life. How it must gall you that you couldn't protect darling little Shezza, not that you cared. You're too cold for that, selling him out to me for what? My lies? Let's not wait. We should get together and talk, just you and me._

_I'll be in touch, JM_

The detective resisted the urge to ball the paper in his fist. "This was written before his death," he declared.

Mycroft nodded in agreement. "A precaution in case his plans failed and he died."

"He knew he might have to kill himself. He was expecting it," Sherlock mused.

The government official shifted in his seat. "And his jab at my not being able to protect you would be valid regardless of if you actually died or not."

"This is likely the first of a series of letters that were written," the detective observed. Sherlock growled, low and menacing. He didn't have time for this, not with the potential threat to Mary. Still, his brother was being targeted and there was no assurance that his own little family wouldn't be targeted as well. He would just have to work both cases simultaneously. "Fine. I'll look into it."

Mycroft stood to leave. "I never doubted you would." With that, Mycroft and his umbrella left Sherlock to it.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock took Mary by the arm and propelled her gently towards the sofa. "I'll take care of dinner. You rest."

"I'm pregnant, not helpless, Sherlock."  
She patted his hand fondly as he helped her to take a seat.

The detective grabbed a pillow. "Sit up." When she did, he stuffed it behind her back. "I would never accuse you of being helpless, but, as you said, you are pregnant, very pregnant, and your back hurts, as do your feet. Let me take care of you until John gets home."

Mary grabbed his wrist. "Thank you." She kept staring at him without letting go.

"What?" Sherlock couldn't read her expression.

She sighed, then let him go. "I'm not getting any younger, that's all. We have to think about the future. Rosie will need a brother or sister. Someone to grow up with."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock turned towards the kitchen. "Someone to spy on and control, you mean."

"No, love. Not every older sibling is like Mycroft. Besides you love him." Mary smiled. "Just like he loves you."

The detective froze. _Just like he loves you._ Sherlock whirled, grabbing his Belstaff from where he had hung it by the door of 221C. "I'll be back."

"What..." Mary began, then broke off. She'd hear all about it later.

* * *

Sherlock didn't have to think hard to know where to go. Raising his hand, he hailed a cab with no problem. He was already thinking on the confrontation ahead as he called out the address to the cabbie.

His theory was entirely plausible, probable, in fact, and that left a bad taste in his mouth. Sherlock had fed information to his brother that had allowed Mycroft to locate and seize Moriarty's assets. His brother could have found what he needed there. So his thoughts went as they traversed London.

After exiting the cab at his destination, Sherlock stood on the pathway and stared at the door to the Diogenese. When he entered, he was more subdued than normal, not causing a disturbance. Sherlock allowed himself to be led to Mycroft rather than storming ahead and didn't consider speaking until the door closed behind him, leaving him alone in the room with his brother. 

Mycroft looked up at Sherlock's entrance, his entire body going stiff. A moment later, he sagged in his chair and lowered his forehead to his hand.

"You've always said caring isn't an advantage," Sherlock spoke into the silence. 

The government official stood wearily and went to pour two glasses of scotch. He turned and handed one to Sherlock who took it. Taking a sip, Mycroft returned to his seat. "You should know, baby brother, having stood on the ledge yourself and peered down." He took another sip before meeting his brother's eyes meaningfully. "Sentiment makes fools of us all."

Sherlock had his confirmation, then. Mycroft had arranged the nationwide broadcast of the Moriarty footage to save him. He nodded and started to speak, but Mycroft cut him off.

"Things are never easy, are they Sherlock? Life rarely goes as planned."

The detective froze, he had missed something. From the warning look on his brother's face, they couldn't speak here.

"I didn't come to talk about life, Mycroft. If I want to wax philosophical, I'll go off on my own to think." Sherlock was careful to sound his usual caustic self. "And I'll go to the last place anyone would expect to find me to do it." The tiniest nod from his brother let the detective know his message had been received - they would meet on the roof of Bart's to talk.

Mycroft made a show of sighing as if in exasperation. "Why _are_ you here?"

"I need you to increase surveillance on 221, Mary specifically. You know about the murders. If you want me to concentrate on the Moriarty issue, keep her safe." The ferocity in his voice didn't need to be feigned, he was truly worried for Mary's safety.

"Very well, but I expect results."

They exchanged calculated glares, then Sherlock left, being certain to raise a commotion as he went.

* * *

Clarissa had several browsers open on her laptop, one of them opened to John Watson's blog. Mary's due date was drawing near. It was almost time.

There was a sound announcing the arrival of a new email. Clarissa switched over to that window. It was from a familiar address and the subject line read simply **Need a distraction?** She clicked on it and read. The suggested course of action was perfect. Clarissa responded simply **Yes**. She deleted both the incoming and outgoing messages, secure in the knowledge they couldn't be traced.

She smiled to herself. Yes, it was almost time.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock pushed the door open and stepped out onto the roof of Barts. The brisk wind cut through him, despite the Belstaff wrapped tightly around him. He looked around and gave a little shiver. It wasn't the cold, though, that caused it. Moriarty's presence was almost palpable. The detective remembered how the psychopathic genius had sat there so casually on the ledge waiting for him to arrive, waiting for him to fall.

With determination, Sherlock turned away and paced across the roof. All of that was history. It shouldn't matter now, except the tendrils of the past were reaching for them, trying to wrap around their throats and choke them. He wondered what Mycroft had done. His brother so rarely made mistakes, but like himself, his brother had been expertly played by Moriarty and it looked like he still was. It looked like both of them were. Sherlock reached into his pocket and withdrew a pack of cigarettes, lighting one and taking a deep draw.

Almost an hour passed before Mycroft made his appearance and Sherlock had smoked cigarette after cigarette. The government official stepped onto the rooftop, looking unusually drawn. "Thank you for finding a way to meet me. May I?"

"I thought you quit," Sherlock said, passing his cigarettes to his brother.

"I could say the same to you." Mycroft lit a cigarette, then looked at his brother.

Sherlock inclined his head in acknowledgement. "So, brother dear, shall we dispense with the usual pleasantries? What have you done and where did you go wrong?"

Mycroft grimaced. "Oh, You've already deduced part of it."

"Yes," the detective agreed. "You staged Moriarty's return so you could bring me home."

"And it worked." Mycroft gave him the barest hint of a smile before looking away. "Sentiment. It appears even I am not immune." He didn't expect thanks, so he wasn't disappointed when it didn't come.

The detective took one last draw on his cigarette, then dropped it, stubbing it out with his heel. "The letter you showed me..." Sherlock began.

Mycroft finished for him, "Wasn't my doing. Someone new is trying to play Moriarty's games. The letter was never in the government's possession, no, nor mine, so whoever sent it had access to it and perhaps to other of Moriarty's resources that we overlooked."

The list of people Moriarty had trusted had been very short and Sherlock had eliminated each and every one of them. Except... "Moran's body was never recovered after I shot him. He's the only one of those I hunted down who could have survived."

"Ah." Mycroft twirled his umbrella as he thought. "He was Moriarty's right hand man, was he not?"

"And something more," the detective acknowledged. "He'll want revenge for his lover's death, no doubt." Sherlock began pacing. "But why involve you?"

"Perhaps dearest Jim complained about his stay in my care," Mycroft suggested. That had been his biggest mistake, letting Moriarty go. He should have had the man killed and to hell with unraveling his organisation.

Sherlock shook his head. "That may be a part of it, but the letter was addressed to you by Moriarty himself. That implies my death wasn't his end game." He stopped and looked at his brother. "He was after you the whole time."

"Wrong, baby brother, his obsession was clearly centred on you. At most, I was an afterthought." Mycroft twirled his umbrella. "I imagine he couldn't stand the idea of leaving details unresolved. He would have made plans to rectify that." He looked directly into Sherlock's eyes. "You do realise John is an unresolved detail."

The detective paused in his pacing. He had gone pale, all colour draining from his lips and cheeks. "I can't lose him, Mycroft. I can't lose either one of them."

The government official looked away, the raw emotion on Sherlock's face too painful to witness. "Mary should be safe enough. She wasn't on Moriarty's radar, not even in connection to her past. It's John we need to be concerned about."

"I disagree. Just because she wasn't part of my life then, doesn't mean Moran will ignore her now." He resumed his pacing. "There have been disturbing posts on John's blog. I have reason to believe they are connected to the string of killings involving pregnant women. The timing appears to be coincidental, but..."

"There's no such thing as coincidence," Mycroft interjected.

"Precisely." Sherlock's hands flew to his hair and he started tugging. "You've put protection on our parents, of course."

"Yes, and your John and Mary are being watched, discretely." Mycroft gave his brother a tight smile. "You know how well they would react to that knowledge, so we won't tell them."

"Good." Sherlock started to walk towards the door, his thoughts churning. He paused. "You will send me any additional letters as they arrive?"

"Yes, and, Sherlock, do be careful." Mycroft watched as his brother gave a small nod, then left.


	9. Chapter 9

Mrs. Holmes stepped outside to fetch the morning paper. What she found on her front lawn made her pause before bending and tucking the paper under her arm. She knew there was likely no need hurry as she stepped over to the body and calmly checked for a pulse. Not finding one, Violet Holmes turned and went back into the house, calling out, "Siger, breakfast will have to wait a few minutes."

* * *

Mycroft, already at work despite the early hour, gave a start as his personal phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and made a strained face. Answering, he said in his most polite tone, "Good morning, Mummy."

"Mycroft, someone has left a rather unorthodox gift on the front lawn," Voilet said in a matter of fact tone. "It's clearly meant for either you or your brother. Do be a dear and come clear it away before the neighbours see it and start having apoplectic fits. The item itself doesn't bother your father, but the neighbours chattering will."

The government official rested his head in his hand. "Of course, Mummy. Sherlock and I will be there right away to clear things up." He paused, listening to the sound of his mother pouring morning cups of coffee. "Mummy, please be careful, you and Father, both."

"Oh, we'll be careful dear, but don't let your emotions run amok. If your latest playmate, or Sherlock's, if it's his, had wanted us dead, we would be. Kisses, dear. Don't take too long." With that, Mrs. Holmes rang off.

* * *

Sherlock, John, Lestrade and Mycroft stared down at the cold body laying on the Holmes' front lawn. Lestrade's men had formed up around the perimeter and were keeping watch for anything untoward.

The detective waited impatiently for photos and forensic samples to be taken, then he crouched down and examined the body, taking in every minute detail before rolling it onto its back. Sherlock rifled through the dead man's pockets, coming up with a letter. He held it up, showing it to Mycroft. "Three guesses who it's from." He flipped it around, revealing his brother's name in Moriarty's neat handwriting.

Mycroft plucked the letter from Sherlock's fingers. "Do you recognise him?" the government official asked, gesturing towards the body with the sealed envelope.

"No." Sherlock stood, brushing his hands off and slipping them into his pockets. "The letter?"

_Mycie,_

_I sincerely hope you like my invitation. Show me that you're clever. Shall we meet at 9:00 pm tomorrow night? Yes, let's. Wear your best._

_James_

"Simple," Mycroft stated.

"Obvious," Sherlock agreed.

"Chez Express," they said in unison.

The detective smiled. "Clearly, from the distinctive uniform."

John smiled, "Amazing." He shrugged off the two Holmses withering looks. "It is. I don't know how you decide what to remember and what to delete. A uniform?"

"That letter..." Greg pointed to the paper Mycroft still held. "Who's James?"

The brothers exchanged looks. At Mycroft's nod, Sherlock explained. "We're meant to believe the letter is from Moriarty. It's not the first."

The DI shook his head. "But Moriarty is dead. Isn't he?"

"He's very dead," the British Government agreed. "His remains were identified every way possible and he was cremated under my watch. DNA samples were taken, again, under my watch should an issue of identity ever arise."

Greg glanced at John, not entirely surprised by the doctor's lack of surprise. Sherlock must have explained what was going on to him at some point. "So now what?"

"Now we explain to our parents that they will be going on holiday for an unspecified period of time." Mycroft looked towards the house, resigned to the upcoming argument.

* * *

Clarissa hadn't known when the distraction would come, but the feed her mysterious online friend had provided of 221 had clearly shown the moment when the two men had left, pell mell, ostensibly on some case. Even that old woman had left on some errand. She smiled and got her kit together. She had everything she'd need to perform a quick cesarian section and to care for the baby. A few minutes in and out and she'd have everything she had ever dreamed of.


	10. Chapter 10

Mary was tired. That seemed to be her permanent state as of late. As far along in her pregnancy as she was, it was to be expected. She double checked the lock on the door to the flat, then lay down on the sofa, kicking off her shoes and stretching out. John's SIG was tucked under the sofa cushion, safety engaged. A short nap would do her the world of good and she would feel better for when the men returned to the flat.

It was almost impossible to get comfortable. If Mary lay on her back, it hurt. If she lay on her side, she felt like a beached whale. She decided to opt for beached whale and pulled a blanket over herself. She lay with her hand on her distended belly, feeling every motion that Rosie made. Her daughter wouldn't quieten down. It was okay, though. It made Mary smile as she drifted off into a shallow sleep.

* * *

Clarissa approached 221 with her arms full of packages and bags, ostensibly a delivery of baby gifts. In reality they were nothing more than prettily wrapped empty boxes and tissue stuffed bags. All except for one bag that contained her caesarean kit and everything she would need to clean the baby after the delivery and a nappy bag that had everything she would need to dress and care for the baby until she got it, no, her, home.

Using a key that had appeared in her post a few weeks ago, courtesy of her mysterious friend, the obsessed woman unlocked the door to 221. She smiled for the benefit of anyone watching and entered as if she belonged there. Once inside, Clarissa set the empty boxes and bags quietly on the floor and moved down the stairs to C. She had the two bags that she would need in her left hand and a gun in her right. She had yet to have a problem subduing a pregnant woman. All she had to do was aim her gun at said woman's distended belly and compliance was assured.

Clarissa tried the door to C only to find it was locked. That was okay, she had a key to the flat as well. Stealthily, she unlocked the door and pushed it open, entering the room gun first.

* * *

Mary had slept through the opening of the outer door to 221, but the sound of a key in the lock of the living room door brought her wide awake. If it had been John or Sherlock coming home, they would have called to let her know they were coming first and she would have heard them on the stairs. She eased her hand under the cushion and pulled out the SIG, hiding it under her blanket and flicking off the safety as the door opened and the barrel of the gun preceded a woman through the door.

Closing the door behind her, Clarissa stepped into the room. Her face was twisted in disdain and loathing. "You're nothing special, are you? I thought maybe your photos didn't do you justice, but..." She waved towards Mary with the gun. "Why did John pick you?"

Mary shifted, starting to sit up on the sofa, but the obsessed woman gestured with the gun angrily.

"Don't move. I won't hesitate to kill you." Clarissa set the two bags on the ground. Keeping the gun on Mary, she crouched and pulled a syringe out of the bag containing the caesarean kit. Walking towards the pregnant assassin, she spoke in even tones. "John was supposed to marry me. We would have had a home in the suburbs and children, but he chose you instead. It's really not fair."

As Clarissa approached, Mary calmly pulled out the SIG and aimed it between the obsessed woman's eyes.

Clarissa's eyes went wide, not having expected such a development. "I'll shoot you if you don't put down the gun," she said with a shaky voice. "I know you don't want to die."

"Go ahead." Mary's voice was cold. "You plan to kill me anyway and take my baby." It was, as Sherlock would say, obvious now that she was faced with the woman. "If you don't pull the trigger, I will." She waited. When the obsessed woman didn't move, Mary started counting, "One, two, th..."

Clarissa tried to pull the trigger, but nothing happened. She had forgotten to release the safety as Mary had noted. Panicked, Clarissa lunged for her with the needle. The assassin, soon to be mother, pulled the trigger and shot the threat just above Clarissa's right eye.

"Amateur." Mary fell back against the back of the sofa and rubbed her belly, soothing an agitated Rosie. "Just wait until your Daddies find out what Mummy has done." She pulled her mobile from her pocket and called John.


	11. Chapter 11

Mary sat calmly rubbing her belly as her flat was invaded by a team from the Yard. Much to her pleasure and some relief, their address meant that the team was led by DI Greg Lestrade.

The SIG had been placed on the coffee table. Far enough away that it wouldn't make her look an immediate threat, but close enough that she could have it in her hand in a heartbeat.

Now that Greg was in the room she held her hands up and nodded towards the weapon. “That’s what I used to kill her.”

Donovan stopped what she was doing at gaped at the blonde. “Aren’t you the cool one?” She looked at Mary’s belly and shuddered. What kind of mother would such a cold woman be? “You just killed someone and you’re sitting there like nothing happened. You’re as much a freak as the other two.”

“Sally!” the DI snapped. He turned at the sound of an umbrella tapping on the floor. To his relief, it was Mycroft Holmes. He didn’t know him well, but he knew he could smooth things over and make this case go much easier, if not make it disappear completely. This was one of those times when Greg was willing to bend the rules, hell, break them, if it saw that justice was carried out. He was fairly certain Mrs. Watson had just put an end to the serial killer they had been hunting in self-defence. As far as he was concerned, that was justice.

“Ah, Inspector Lestrade,” Mycroft said with deliberate warmth as he gestured around the flat. “This case is no longer a concern of the Yard. My people will take over now.”

Greg breathed a sigh of relief. “Alright! You heard the man! Everyone out!” The DI held up his hand to silence first Sally, then another member of his team. “Trust me, you don’t want to argue about this. Now, Out!” He started towards the door, the last of the Yarders to leave.

“Detective Inspector, would you stay?” The government official asked as his own people divided into two groups. Half went to debrief the team from the Yard. The other half swept into the flat and started processing evidence and, yes, cleaning as they went. He looked over at Mary. “I’d like to talk to Mrs. Watson. If I do it alone, my brother… Well, Sherlock would be less than happy as would Doctor Watson.”

"That won't be necessary, Lestrade," came Sherlock's voice from the door.

Greg nodded gratefully. This was one time he didn't want to be caught in the middle. He watched as John ran over and sat by his wife, taking her in an embrace and smoothing her hair as the enormity of the situation seemed to finally register with her. "I'll just be going, then." Thankfully, no one seemed to notice his departure.

"It's alright, you're safe," John whispered into Mary's hair.

The one time assassin laughed and pushed him away, though she took his hand and placed it on her distended belly. "I never worried about myself." She gave a shaky laugh. "It was the baby..." Much to her horror, Mary started crying. "Stupid hormones."

Sherlock sat on Mary's other side and hugged her from behind. "It's easy to be cold when it comes to one's own safety. I believe we've both learned it's not so simple when it come to the ones we love." He kissed her hair and glared at Mycroft, daring him to say anything snide.

The government official took a seat in a nearby chair, resting his hands on the handle of his umbrella. "It seems this woman," he indicated Clarissa with a dip of his umbrella, "must have had an accomplice. I doubt the timing of her attack was a coincidence."

John glanced at the body on the floor for the first time since entering the room. "My God," he breathed. "I know her. We dated. I broke it off because she was a bit too possessive. She hated Sherlock."

"Yeah. She sort of mentioned the part about you dating." Mary glared at the body. "That's why she wanted the baby, to have a piece of you."

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Moran used her, provided the distraction at our parents' house so Mary would be here alone. You were meant to be devastated, baby brother, as was, of course, John. Moran would then have moved in to finish you both off. That would have left me." The government official didn't like to think how devastated he would have been at the loss of the baby. Even worse was the possibility that he might have lost Sherlock. "We have to draw him out, turn the game around."


	12. Chapter 12

"How do we turn it around on Moran?" John asked.

Mycroft lifted a hand just as some of his men were about to remove Clarissa's body and they halted. He set aside his umbrella and walked over to the body. Crouching down, the government official pulled out his mobile and snapped several photos of the woman's dead face. When he stood, he gestured for his men to carry on with their task. "Perhaps we should move our conversation upstairs whilst my people complete their work." The government official looked around the room. It would take some time to eradicate the signs of death from the room. "We can discuss and act on my plan just as well from the comfort of B."

Sherlock stood and glared at Clarissa's body, wishing she was alive so he could kill her himself for daring to come near Mary.

At the same time, John assisted his wife up from the sofa and started moving with her towards the door. "But you do have a plan?" the doctor asked.

With a sharp intake of breath, and a little shake, Sherlock came back to himself. "Of course he does." He looked his brother directly in the eyes, almost able to see the plan written across Mycroft's face. "Moran doesn't have quite the ego Moriarty had, but he is prideful. It's a good idea to hit him there." With that, he followed the rest of his little family upstairs, leaving his brother to bring up the rear.

As Mary sat in John's chair upstairs, she rubbed her aching back. She would be glad when Rosie arrived. Just walking was a challenge, let alone sitting or standing.

John settled on the arm of the chair next to her and Sherlock took his own chair. That left Mycroft to grab a chair from the desk and pull it over so that he could address the three.

Mycroft pulled up the photo of Clarissa and looked at it. "Do you want me to explain, baby brother, or shall I?"

Sherlock's gaze hadn't left John and Mary since they had all sat down. "I'll be happy to." He glanced at his brother, then back to his partners. "Sebastian Moran." The name floated in the air for several long moments before the detective continued. "Mycroft and I know that he's the one behind this. While I was... away, you know I killed people. Evil people. There was only one body not accounted for. Moran's." Sherlock noticed the pained expression on John's face and immediately discerned it's source - Mary had his hand in an iron grip, her knuckles gone white. "I see you've heard of him, Mary."

"Moran's a cold one. He'll take any job if the fee is right. Nothing is too much... innocents, children..." The former assassin shook her head. "He takes pride in his skill more than most. It's said he's never failed to complete a job." She looked at John, then at the other two men in turn. "But he's a sniper. Why not just pick us off one by one?"

"Because he's trying to play Moriarty's game." Mycroft rubbed at his temple. "A game I unwittingly restarted when I arranged the broadcast that brought my brother home." The government official wasn't surprised that neither of them blinked at that. They were both highly unusual individuals. He brought out his phone and sent the photos of Clarissa to Sherlock. "See that these photos make it onto your website and John's blog. Sanitise them for the innocent, but make it clear to Moran that his bullet missed the mark. And write something suitably scathing while you are at it. Let him know I'll meet him tomorrow night at the specified place and time unless he's changed his mind."

"Myc..." Sherlock started to object.

"He'll be furious that Clarissa failed. It will make him reckless." Mycroft raised his hand to forestall his brother's further objections. "Besides. I won't merely be relying on my people. I expect you to be there, brother-mine. He can't expect to take on two Holmeses and survive."

"Two Holmses and a Watson," John said, chin jutted out in stubborn determination. "Mary can stay with Molly. Molly won't mind." He turned and looked at his wife. "But stay away from the cat litter box."

Mrs. Watson smiled briefly. "Yes, doctor."

The two Holmses exchanges baffled looks, then Mycroft spoke. "Your presence will be most welcome." He knew better than to argue with the ex-army doctor. The man could be every bit as stubborn as Sherlock. "I suggest that you allow my people a few more hours to work, Mary. You can use that time to call Miss Hooper, then pack your bags. Sherlock, get to work with those photos. I'll be making arrangements for my people to be undercover tomorrow night at Chez Express. After that, gentlemen, we shall put together every piece of our plan for tomorrow night."

It was a measure of how much the brothers' relationship had changed that Sherlock allowed his brother this much control of the situation. That didn't mean he wouldn't speak up quite vocally if he disagreed with Mycroft's plans or even ignore them. Whether he would need to was yet to be seen.


	13. Chapter 13

Mycroft took a deep breath and braced himself as he stepped out of his car to cross the pathway to Chez Express. This was the most dangerous part of their plan. If Moran was waiting to take a shot at him from afar, nothing good be done about it. Of course, the government official was wearing body armour beneath his suit, but it would afford no protection if Moran shot him in the head. Still, Mycroft walked with apparent calm as he entered the restaurant.

The maître d' greeted Mycroft at the door. "Mr. Holmes, you are expected. (He was actually on Mycroft's payroll, but Moran didn't know that.) Right this way."

With a single raised eyebrow, the government official followed the man to a table set for two. At the place where the maître d' indicate he should sit, was an envelope with the by now familiar writing on it. Mycroft didn't look around to locate his people. He knew there were at least four couples from his team scattered around the restaurant. John was hiding in the kitchen and Sherlock was about somewhere, unseen.

Mycroft sat and, as soon as it had been poured, took a sip of the provided wine. Next, he picked up the letter and carefully opened it and began to read.

 _Myc-Myc,_ (Mycroft rolled his eyes.)

_I trust you're enjoying our game. You're brother always did. So eager to play, that one. It's time for you to say goodbye, but not until you meet my best game piece. Play nice and know when you are beaten._

_James Moriarty, Master of Games_

With a snear of contempt, Mycroft tore the paper in two, then in quarters. He made a show of letting them fall to the floor, then he picked up his wine and casually took another sip. It was possible that it had been poisoned, but a man like Moran would want to kill him in a much more personal manner.

Out of the corner of his eye, the government official saw a man stand up and abandon an untouched meal. The man approached Mycroft's table.

"May I join you?"

The man fit the limited description they had of Moran. He leaned back in his chair and tipped his head to the side. With a gesture, he indicated the man should sit. "Of course. Sebastian Moran, I presume."

"And you are Mycroft Holmes." Moran quietly took out a gun and set it on the table next to his dinnerware. "You, of course, know why you are here."

"Yes." Mycroft smiled cooly. "So you can put an end to me. I assume you'll finish off my brother at a later date."

"Why bother? Killing that cunt and her baby would have destroyed him and the doctor. It would have been a nice bonus seeing you fret over your brother, but it's not necessary. It's you I want. You see, I'm the one that had to take care of Jim after he spent time with you." Sebastian's fist hit the table. "Me! No one should see the person they love in such a condition." There was a break in the restaurants chatter, but it didn't last.

"How was that working out for you?" Mycroft looked at the perfectly manicured nails of his right hand. "Loving a psychopath? Did he send you flowers? Take you to fine restaurants? I know. He wrote you flowery poetry."

Moran grabbed the gun and aimed it at Mycroft's forehead. The restaurant went silent. "You don't know anything! Jim wasn't what you say he was. Jim was creative. He didn't think like other people, that's all. How could ants expect to comprehend a god?!"

"A dead god," Mycroft said quietly as he made a motion that told his people not to act yet.

Sebastian's hand began to shake. "I should kill you now and forget what I have planned."

"I'd prefer it if you didn't." Sherlock stepped out of the shadows where even Mycroft had overlooked him. "He may be an arrogant prat, but he is family."

Moran's gun hand didn't falter. "Take one more step, move wrong, breathe wrong and he's dead. And don't think to make any threats to me. Jim is gone. I don't particularly care what happens to me."

Sherlock gave him a dead eyed smile. "Of course you don't. You're the last hold out from a vast network of criminals. The pining lover. The lone gunman." He gave the last words careful enunciation and stress.

From the other side of the room, where the kitchen opened on the dining room, John burst through the door. Mycroft threw himself to the side, Sherlock dropped to the ground and John fired a single shot that entered the back of Sebastian's head just behind the ear.

The restaurant burst into chaos. The true patrons trying to flee in panic even as Mycroft's people moved into protective positions around him, Sherlock and John. One of his men verified that Moran was indeed dead. It almost seemed anticlimactic.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recently updated with special thanks to [ANNUNNAKI](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ANNUNNAKI/pseuds/ANNUNNAKI) for helping me make the birth experience more in line with what would happen in the U.K. rather than in the U.S..

Mary was stretched out on the sofa of 221B. Her head was in John's lap, her feet were in Sherlock's. The detective absently massaged her feet as they talked.

"With the letters and the witnesses at the restaurant, not to mention some clever work by Anthea, no one will have trouble believing that Moran was behind the broadcasts as well as the letters. An embellished truth is easier to believe than an outright lie." Mycroft looked at his brother, feeling an enormous sense of relief. "There will be no more pressure put on you, brother-mine, and your life should go on, uninterrupted now that you will have your full pardon."

Mary shifted, trying to get comfortable. She kept expecting contractions at any moment, had done for days. "At least I don't have to worry about my boys anymore." She got up to go to the loo. The moment Mary stood, what seemed like buckets of water poured down her thighs. She looked down with a surprised smile. "And that would be my water breaking."

All the men leapt to their feet, rushing to take her in hand. Mary waved them away. "Take it easy, boys." She walked towards the bathroom. "John, I just need to clean up. Get me some fresh clothes?"

"Um. Yeah. Right." The doctor rushed to their bedroom and grabbed up some clothing, then took it to her.

He looked so panicked that Mary kissed him lightly, then patted his cheek. "Don't worry. We have loads of time before we need to leave for hospital. Remember what they taught us in class?" She peeked around the corner at Sherlock who was pacing frantically. "Keep him busy. Ask him to make me tea. Tell him I asked for him to do it." With a wink, she dissapeared into the bathroom to get a bath and clean up.

When Mary returned from her bath, she found tea waiting for her. She noted that John looked calm enough now that the initial shock had worn off, but Sherlock was still obviously nervous. He had a notebook, pen and stopwatch on hand. Mycroft was on his phone, presumably conducting government business.

"How long since your last contraction and what was its duration?" the detective asked.

Mary laughed. "I don't know. A while ago." She laughed again when he looked at her in a disapproving manner.

"It's no laughing matter, Mary." Sherlock turned to his ftiend. "John, talk to her!"

"I'll tell you the instant the next contraction starts." Mary walked over and kissed the detective on the temple. After that, she started puttering about in the flat, tidying up.

"You shouldn't be doing that. John, should she be doing that?" Sherlock's worry was endearing.

"That's what they told us in class," the doctor assured him. "They said she needs to walk around as much as possible and if she hurts too bad, to take a bath to ease the pa..."

"Contraction," Mary called out.

Sherlock Immediately started the stopwatch and recorded the time. When Mary's face relaxed, she told him it was over. The detective recorded the duration of the contraction. He seemed calmer now that he had a purpose.

Things continued in that fashion for quite some time. Every now and again, either John or Mary would look at the record Sherlock was keeping. At some point in the afternoon, the mood shifted.

John had Sherlock's record in hand. "

Mary's contractions are coming about every five minutes and lasting one. Have been for nearly two hours." He looked over at Mycroft who was still on the phone and waved to get his attention.

The government official ended the call abruptly. "Yes, John?"

"Is your car still here?" John asked.

"My car is just outside." Mycroft had already moved across the room and had opened the door. His umbrella lay forgotten by John's chair.

The doctor tried to help Mary and she swatted his hands away. "Make yourself useful. Go get the suitcase."

For his part, Sherlock was stood there, completely stunned and unmoving. Mycroft had to go back across the room and fetch him. They followed Mary down the stairs and met John. He was already putting the suitcase in the boot. Once they got in the car, the driver pulled into traffic, headed towards Whitechapel Hospital.

Mary had bullied Sherlock into being polite to the midwife and the other staff, much to John's amusement. The Maternity Unit was light and everyone they had met had been friendly. So far things had gone rather well.

The midwife checked Mary's progress aling with both her and the baby's vital signs.

"Sherlock," Mary said after she had recovered from her last contraction, "why don't you go check on Mycroft."

"But Mycroft doesn't need..." the detective broke off as he rolled his eyes. "Of course, send me away so I can't offend anyone." He held up his hands. "I'm going."

Mary turned from watching him go to give her attention to the midwife. She didn't like the look on the woman's face. "What is it?" she asked, concerned. John had been holding her hand and he gave it a squeeze in support.

The midwife frowned at what she saw. "The foetal heart rate is a bit low. It's nothing to panic about, but we'll want to watch it closely." The midwife started an oxygen line, then turned Mary on her left side and put a pillow at her back. "Doing this lifts weight from the main blood vessel. It should help."

Sherlock returned quite some time later, immediately seeing the worried looks on John and Mary's faces. "What's happened?" he demanded to know, crossing over to stand by the bedside.

John explained what had happened and that the baby's heart rate was being closely monitored.

"What happens if it doesn't improve?" the detective asked, worry filling his voice.

The midwife chose that moment to check the latest vital signs. She answered his question. "If there's no improvement, or not enough, then an obstetrician will be called in to perform a cesarean section, but we're not at that point yet." She gave them all a reassuring smile, but it didn't go all the way to her eyes.

Sherlock, of course, noticed, but for once, he decided not to speak. John and Mary were worried enough as it was.

After a later reading of the vitals, the midwife turned to address the three of them. "The baby's heart rate hasn't recovered like I had hoped it would. At this point, I suggest we consult with the obstetrician."

The three expectant parents exchanged looks and came to an immediate agreement.

"Alright. Yes," Mary said, her voice strong despite her concern.

The midwife fetched the obstetrician and, after looking over the vital signs, both historic and current and consulting with the midwife, turned to the waiting trio. "Since the baby appears to be under stress, I recommend a cesarean section. It offers the least risk to the baby and the besy prognosis."

Mary nodded emphatically. "Of course, yes. Yes. Yes. Whateve is for the best."

It wasn't long before she was being wheeled to the Maternity Theatre for the delivery. Both John and Sherlock followed in her wake. The staff tried to stop the detective, but a few pointed words from Mycroft put a stop to that nonsense. Both men put on blues, shoe covers and hats, then they were allowed in.

The procedure went quickly, and without mishap and the baby came into the world, crying at the shock of the air against its skin. Of course, Sherlock had filmed the whole thing on his mobile.

The men went with the baby. Sherlock and John watched as she was put through her tests, weighed and measured. After that, John gave her her first bath whilst Sherlock took photographs. When that was done, they were shown to the recovery room. The minute Mary saw them, she smiled grogilly.

"I want to hold my Rosie." Mary demanded.

"You will, as soon as you wake up a bit," John assured her.

It took an hour before Mary was awake enough to sit up and hold her baby. Like every mother before her, she unwrapped her and examined her from head to toe. She counted fingers and toes. She kissed her all over her little face and on her tiny fists, then she wrapped her back up, swaddling her tight. "You are the luckiest little girl. You have a mummy and two daddies that love you very much."

There came a knock a the door as Mycroft stepped in. "And an uncle to spoil you." He was carrying a pink and black plush bumble bee that he brought over and handed to Mary. "For the lady of the hour, when she gets a bit older. And not a word from you, Sherlock, about the sentiment or the colour of the bee."

Sherlock gave his brother an odd look. "I was only going to say thank you, Mycroft, for thinking of her as your niece."

"If she is your family, then she is mine," the British Government said simply.

"And that makes you apart of our family." Mary held out her hand and beckoned him near again. "Here, hold your niece."

John looked around at his strange little family and realised he wouldn't change anything about it. Not anything at all.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to podfic or translate this or create a drawing based on it, go for it. Just please let me know and link back to my fic.
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr.](http://shippingintothenight.tumblr.com)


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